


All Hail The Heartbreaker

by Toomanytears



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Against their will, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Athlete Harry, Awkward Flirting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Harry Does Not Know What He's Getting Himself Into, I'll add the smut tags later, Ireland, Jealous Harry, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Harry, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Smut, Student Harry, Witness Protection, ex boyfriends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-10-23 13:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17684102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toomanytears/pseuds/Toomanytears
Summary: Louis Tomlinson has known desertion, deception and the kind of love that leaves you both broken and yearning for more. The carefully-crafted paperhouse of a life he has built around himself is not immune to Harry Styles' charm, however, despite Louis' determination otherwise. With the revelation of a plan, a secret plan that could save both himself and the tedious life he has forged, Louis knows that the past can no longer remain hidden. Sometimes secrets are made to be shared.Or an Enemies to Reluctant Friends to Lovers AU that nobody asked for. Featuring murky skies, stolen glances and a painful secret that threatens to separate two people.





	1. Beating Heart Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for taking the time to click on my fic! I must warn you that there are some aspects that may be considered dark, but that is open to review by each individual reader. There is, perhaps, the same level of violence and allusion to undercover/police work as that in James Bond. It won't be too heavy, but it is an intricate aspect of Louis' backstory and will certainly be mentioned and alluded to. It is unbeta'd because my wonderful beta is currently working diligently on something else that I'm not allowed to tell you about and I didn't want to burden her! Nevertheless, I've checked over anything so it's unlikely that there are any major mistakes. That being said, I sincerely hope you enjoy this!  
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Do not copy or translate or re-post my work. I do not know Harry or Louis and merely took their names, appearances and aspects of their personalities as a basis for their characters in this fanfic. Do not share this fanfic with Harry or Louis or anyone affiliated with them. Copyright © Toomanytears 2018

_Soon, soon the flesh_

_The grave cave ate will be_

_At home on me_

_-_ Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus

It was a lonely sight, Louis thought, as he peered over the counter at the customers dotted in each corner of the café. He absently cleaned the surface of the counter and glanced at the three elderly women beside the window. One of the women, wearing a tight perm and a gold ring with an enormous diamond on her gnarled index finger, seemed to be lecturing her rather meek-looking companions.

“I wouldn’t mind so much except for the fact that they forecast light winds,” she said earnestly. Her voice carried through the quiet café.

One of the other women piped up, gesticulating wildly at the monsoon-like downpour outside. “It’s quite a sight, though, my dear! April promises showers, does it not?” The woman had a hoarse, commanding voice that seemed at odds with her reserved demeanour. Louis liked her at once.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lucy,” Gnarled Finger Lady said with a dismissive wave. “This is far more than a mere shower. I don’t know how I’ll even get home.”

Perhaps it was hypocritical of him, but Louis thought she was being very dramatic. The rain pounded against the windows, creating a gentle, almost rhythmic background to his banal cleaning.

Louis had spent the last four months – since one week after his birthday – working in the small, quaint café in Nassau Street, Dublin. His work was reliable, he knew all of the usual customers by name and could memorise their orders in a heartbeat. Most of them were elderly, or recently retired, and enjoyed his company. (He knew that they certainly didn’t come for the sub-par coffee.)

Louis invariably spent his days smiling and very convincingly pretending to be interested in the lives of every customer he met – Mr Garrihy’s arthritic cat who had a penchant for climbing onto the cupboard in the kitchen, Mr and Mrs Dobson’s bridge club members who were (according to their very subjective tales) serial cheaters, and Mrs O’Donnell’s four grandchildren who lived in Oxford, England. Apparently, Mrs O’Donnell thought that, with Louis being from England, he would be familiar with the family. Louis didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise.

Louis prided herself on his ability to feign attentiveness. He was an excellent listener; he made appropriately sympathetic sounds in the right places and asked the kind of questions that prompted someone – usually Mr Garrihy – in the middle of a rant to declare quite gratifyingly “And _another_ thing!”.

The bell above the door chimed and Louis glanced up with surprise. He supposed the rain would have ushered in more stragglers seeking shelter but he didn’t expect someone younger than sixty-five. The soaking wet figure, clad in dripping layers, stumbled inside. Dark hair stuck to his forehead and he shook it like a mane, sending droplets of water flying across the hardwood floors. Louis sighed, making a note to mop the floor after he had left.

The boy dragged his feet over to the counter and it was only then that Louis realised that he was about Louis’ age. Probably a Trinity College student, Louis thought bitterly. He would, predictably, be pompous, conceited and speak with a horribly posh accent that dripped with distain. He would also study something useless but pretentious, like Greek Literature and Philosophy, or Latin with a side in Environmental Economics.

It was then that Louis glanced up to find the boy smiling expectantly at him. Annoyingly, Louis was struck by how handsome he was. Aside from his dishevelled hair – which was dripping onto Louis’ newly-cleaned counter – he had pale, clear skin and his pink lips were curved deviously. He had the kind of alluring smile that attracted blame from teachers at school, no matter how innocent the student. With a cursory glance at the boy’s arrogant demeanour, Louis’ hazarded a guess at ‘not very’.

Trinity Boy was also looking at him with slight confusion, as though he had said something but Louis hadn’t rewarded him with a response.

“What was that?” Louis said, internally smashing his head on the counter for staring.

The boy grinned, as though it was something he was used to and, though a mild inconvenience, was an excellent ego boost. Louis pursed his lips.

“Could I get a tea and one of those almond croissants?” the boy said with that same infuriating smile. He was English, Louis realised. The revelation shouldn’t have caused Louis’ heart to flutter with anxiety. Logically, there were many English people in Ireland but, even four months later, Louis still found his breathing became breathy and erratic whenever a link was forged with home.

Louis nodded. “For here or take away?”

The boy’s lips twisted to the side and he sunk his teeth into his lower lip, as though trying to supress a smile. “Here, thanks. Don’t much fancy going out again in that weather.”

Louis sighed as the boy turned on his heel and sauntered to one of the rickety tables nearest to the counter. He brewed the tea, trying not to listen to the faint tune Trinity Boy was humming, and brought the tea and croissant over to him. Finding that he was busying himself on his laptop, Louis pushed them to the far corner of the table.

“So,” the boy said, glancing up at Louis’ name tag and testing out the name, “James. You a student too?”

Even four months later, the name didn’t sit quite right with him. James Alexander Floyd was his fully assigned name. It sounded foreign on his tongue, and he hated that the first thing he told anyone new he had met since December was a lie. Tentative friendships and strange companionships with what felt like half of Ireland’s elderly population built on a foundation of deception. The name was like a parasite that he couldn’t remove from his own identity and the more he resisted, the stronger it clung to him. And it was attached to him, an incessant reminder that he needed to keep his mouth shut and his head down, unless he was feeling particularly partial to kidnapping, brutally savage torture methods and certain death sentence.

Louis shook his head. “Just working here,” he said with a blithe shrug.

Trinity Boy nodded, as though placated by Louis’ meagre response. “I’m Harry,” he said, flashing his canines. He dragged his tongue along his bottom lip in a way that was entirely too distracting in Louis’ opinion.

Louis nodded again, feeling like a redundant addition to Harry’s conversation. He didn’t look like a Harry, Louis thought, glancing at his leather satchel and listening to his aristocratic drawl. He was more of an Atticus, or Nathaniel Twisketon III.

“I’m studying English Lit,” he said, munching contently on his croissant.

Louis wasn’t quite sure what to do with this information, settling eventually on a half-interested hum.

“So, where in England are you from? It’s not every day you don’t feel like a stranger in a city like Dublin.”

Before Louis could consider his answer  (or contemplate Harry’s absurd use of double-negative) the door chimed and Mrs Dobson marched inside and saved him from spluttering a reply. Louis deemed her a saviour in a purple overcoat and heavy rouge.

“James, my dear!” she called – and Louis had never felt happier hearing her shrill, demanding voice – “I need a strong brandy right away.”

“Mrs Dobson,” Louis said, repeating the practised response to her weekly request for brandy, “we don’t sell any alcohol here. I can make you a coffee, though. Just like I do every week.”

She heaved a sigh and collapsed into one of the chairs, as though Louis denying her brandy was the sole bane of her privileged life. “Coffee will simply have to do, then, James.”

Louis busied himself behind the counter and avoided Trinity Boy’s eye. He could feel his burning stare, however, a sharp pickle at the nape of his neck. He stole a glance to Harry’s table and found him deeply immersed in reading something on his laptop. Louis decidedly turned his attention back to making a strong pot of coffee for Mrs Dobson. It was going to be a long morning.

 

*

 

“James!”

Louis pressed his forehead to the marble-tiled shower wall, sighing. His witness protection programme handler was, possibly, the most infuriatingly cheerful person in existence. How Liam ended up working for MI6, Louis did not know.

“I’m in the shower,” he called. “Be out in a minute!”

Louis massaged shampoo into his hair, relishing the way the small knots untangled and the searing hot water cascaded down his body. Liam could wait five more minutes. Louis shaved his face until it felt completely smooth before rinsing and stepping out of the shower and wrapping an enormous white towel around him. 

“There’s some left-over stir fry in the pan, Liam!” he called. Louis heard a distant shout of thanks before he made his way into his shoe-box bedroom. Pulling on his threadbare sweats and multiple layers of mismatching jumpers, he dragged his feet back into the kitchen. He found Liam wearing a pristine grey suit and feasting on a generous serving of vegetable stir fry. The light above the kitchen table cast a dim light over him and the enormous stack of files on the chair beside him.

“I know I’m a little early,” Liam said with an apologetic smile. “I have to be back in London early tomorrow and figured you wouldn’t mind too much.”

Louis shook his head and smiled easily. He felt vastly underdressed but, with startling immediacy, realised that Liam had seen him in his worst possible state four months previously, half-naked, smeared in dirt and dried blood, and sobbing uncontrollably.

He heard the opening chords of Mariners Apartment Complex on the radio. Louis found it wonderfully appropriate.

“So,” Liam sighed, pushing his plate aside and heaving the pile of files towards him. “We have some good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

Louis smiled despite himself. It was a running joke between them and one which elicited too many uncomfortable memories for Louis to consider in any great depth.

“The good news first, then,” Liam said, eyeing Louis carefully. “We found Foster’s location. He’s just outside Lublin in Poland. He’s apparently only with a small group of bodyguards – estimated ten to twelve men. We think he’s there for another sale.”

Louis’ throat was tight and constraining but he forced himself to nod. “The bad news?”

“New leads tell us that, once he completes this sale, he’s going into permanent hiding.”

Louis shot up from the table, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. He balled his fists at his side to prevent them from shaking. “ _What_?” he demanded. He didn’t miss the way Liam flinched but didn’t have time to focus on the heavy thrum of guilt in his chest. “Why can’t you just intercede the sale before he gets away with it and disappears?”

Liam hung his head and pulled the stack of piles towards him sheepishly, as though they were his own shield against Louis’ wrath. “It’s not that easy,” he sighed. “We have people watching from every angle at the moment but we need to get details of his sale up-and-front if we want to arrest him with sufficient proof. Otherwise his case will be thrown out of criminal rights grounds before either of us can open a bottle of champagne.

“It could take weeks to compile all the evidence that you need from that one sale, though,” Louis said, falling back into his chair.

Liam nodded glumly. “Exactly,” he sighed. “By which stage Foster will be gone without a trace.”

Louis dragged his hands down his face, pressing his palms into his eyes. “When’s the sale supposed to happen?”

“About two months,” Liam said. He smiled at Louis, sanguine and decidedly not reassuring. “We’ll figure something out before then. This isn’t something you need to worry about, you know. It’s our job.”

Louis nodded, resigned despite how utterly useless he felt. One of the terms of the witness protection program he had demanded was that he be consistently informed of any developments about Foster’s whereabouts and movements.

Ethan Foster was a murderer, a gangland crime leader who oversaw an underground drug trade throughout England and Louis’ former boyfriend. And now, he was going to disappear, which could only mean one thing: he was going to find Louis and rectify his rather careless mistake of not killing him four months ago.


	2. Here lies one whose name was writ in water

_Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?_  
_Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find_  
_Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,_  
_Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind_

\- John Keats, To Autumn 

 

On his fifth morning in Ireland, Louis had noticed that working in a café involved a great deal of idleness. The issue with such prolonged gaps between each customer coming into the café meant that he was often reminded of lonely he was. He found dwelling on her loneliness awfully depressing. He often made his way to the National Art Gallery down the street. He found the atmosphere in the gallery strangely comforting, the stillness soothing in a way that allowed him to reflect in a way that was contemplative rather than melancholy. Ethan had despised sentimentality.

“James, I’d love another blueberry muffin if you get a chance, dearie,” Mrs O’Donnell called.

Louis was startled out of his reverie and glanced up, smiling absently at her. “Of course, Mrs O’Donnell.”

The bell chimed again and Louis craned his neck. it was too early for Mrs Dobson, and she always timed her arrivals impeccably, and it was a Thursday, so Mr Garrihy’s nephew would be visiting and he wouldn’t call into the café until just before closing. The arrival of a different customer should have piqued Louis’ interest, dragged him away from his comfortable routine, but it filled him with dread. Consistency was reliable, and meant that Louis didn’t need to read into any situation or encounter too much.

The figure, tall despite his slight hunch, was familiar: Trinity Boy. Louis sighed, brushed his apron primly and marched behind the counter. At least he knew that Trinity boy presented no real threat to him.

Busying himself with cleaning imaginary stains from the counter, Louis felt his pulse quicken as languid footsteps dragged across the hardwood floors. His eyes darted up and took Harry in; his hair was curly, Louis realised, tousled into a pretentious style that probably involved the use of products that could buy a homeless family hot meals and a place to sleep for the night. His clothes, no longer soaking wet, were ironed pristinely, a neat shirt and dark jeans that clung to his thighs. Louis tore his eyes away from the admittedly handsome sight.

“A tea and caramel square, please,” Harry said, brushing his tousled hair out of his eyes. “To go, if you don’t mind.”

Louis smiled tightly and busied himself with Harry’s order, slipping the caramel square into a brown paper bag. When Harry took it, he lingered for a moment, shoving it into his overflowing satchel. Louis adverted his gaze and cleaned the counter, something that was rapidly becoming a reliable default task whenever conversation became stilted or awkward.

Harry coughed loudly. “So, which part of England are you from?” he asked.

Louis surveyed Harry quickly; he was shuffling slightly, though he may have simply felt awkward, and he was looking at Louis with something akin to sanguinity in his eyes. Ethan had once taught Louis precisely how to detect lying, only for him to betray his trust. Louis deemed Harry harmless, though he promised himself not to allow Harry to intrude any further. His instincts weren’t always reliable.

“I’m from Yorkshire, but I’ve been in Ireland for a while.”

Harry smiled at this, full and beatific. “We’re both Northerners, then,” he said, apparently delighted upon finding this common ground. “I’m from Manchester myself. Grew up in Cheshire, but I moved around a little when I was younger.”

Louis raised an eyebrow. “Cheshire? So you’re from the posh end of Manchester, then,” he said. “Sorry to break it to you mate, but that doesn’t make you a Northerner.”

Harry burst into a loud guffaw at this, and Louis frowned. Was Trinity Boy really this desperate for company that he was laughing at an insult to his social class?

“You’ll have to tell me what constitutes a real Northerner, then, James,” he said, still grinning.

Louis supressed a wince at the name. He shook his head, ignoring the heavy thrum of pre-emptive guilt in his chest. “I’m a little busy at the moment, actually.”

Louis dropped his head to busy himself with the cash register, shoving Harry’s change into his hands without looking up to find inevitable confusion or disappointment contorting Harry’s face. Louis was struck by the fact that everything about Harry was too close to home – the familiar talk of social class and his home town; the glint in his eye that reminded Louis so much of friends he had left behind him; even the comforting tones of Harry’s accent. It felt like an intangible rush of emotions that he wasn’t ready to separate.

“Alright, then,” Harry murmured. His voice was light and slightly strained.

Louis forced himself to glance up and nod stiffly. He couldn’t let anyone in, he reminded himself. Trust was no longer a viable option, especially when any link with England was concerned. Home, for several months now, no longer felt like the cocoon of warmth and safety it once was. It felt like a foreign, fleeting entity, something conjured by his imagination that promised of care and fidelity. That was, until he woke up.

The door chimed again and Louis couldn’t resist glancing up to find Harry sauntering out of the café. He didn’t look particularly disgruntled, which Louis frankly took insult too. He sighed, berating himself for even caring about Trinity Boy in the first place. He probably flirted with anything on two legs. He certainly seemed the type, Louis thought bitterly. Confidence, easy charm, a thoughtful, melodic voice that seemed to enrapture Louis. He sighed and pulled out an order form for the following week, deciding to add more caramel squares to the list.

 

*

 

“Evidence collecting is going well and our leads are getting stronger,” Liam informed him over a mouthful of lasagne. "One is them has been placed as Foster’s personal bodyguard.”

Louis eyed him curiously. “Isn’t that a little suspicious? I thought you only put spies in there a month ago?”

Liam nodded, a crease in his brow. “What do you mean by suspicious?”

Exhaling shakily, Louis dug his fingers into his thighs. His shallow nailbeds burned against the pressure.

“I know…I _knew_ Ethan,” Louis said quietly. He carefully avoided Liam’s gaze. “He wouldn’t let people into his inner circle that quickly unless he wanted to keep a closer eye on them.”

“You think one of them might have given Foster a reason not to trust them?”

This was why Louis liked Liam; he was never treated like an untrustworthy or gullible ex-boyfriend, but as someone to listen to. He always considered Louis opinion and, unlike so many others, when he said that he would look into something, he made it his priority to do just that.

“I don’t know,” Louis sighed.

Liam nodded firmly and made a note at the top of the file in his familiar, looping cursive.

“So,” Liam said, shovelling more lasagne into his mouth. “Any news on your end? The usual old ladies still flirting with you?”

Louis cracked a grin and nodded. His mind drifted to the English accent that caused his stomach to coil into a tight knot.

“There was a new customer from Manchester in the café. He… he sounded very similar to Ethan,” Louis said, rubbing the nape of his neck.

Liam sat straighter on his chair, suddenly alert.

“It was nothing, really,” Louis said. “He seemed harmless.”

Liam hummed, unconvinced. Louis knew what was racing through his mind: vigilance, suspicion, paranoia. The first month he spent in Ireland comprised of Louis constantly turning his neck to check for anything out of the ordinary. He would triple-check his locks ever night and refuse to leave his house if anyone struck a conversation with him that left him feeling unhinged.

“Keep me updated on him, will you?” Liam asked.

Louis averted his eyes sheepishly. “I don’t think that’s an issue. I told him quite… bluntly that I wasn’t interested.”

Liam’s mouth drew into a tight line. Louis could tell that his patience was growing thin and waning.

“James,” he sighed. “We’ve spoken about this. Pushing people away… it makes you open to more speculation and usually leads to people latching on tighter, especially if they think there’s a reason for how… distant you can sometimes be.”

Louis didn’t have the energy, nor the desire to feel insulted.

“Do you think I should be moved?” Louis asked. “Somewhere further away?”

Liam shook his head vehemently. “For now, at least, this is the safest place you could possibly be,” he said gently. “Foster expects you to be far away, completely hidden and with a different identity beyond a mere name change. You’re in plain sight, which is why he will never find you.”

Louis nodded, slightly relieved despite the irritating voice in his head viciously whispering about how easily Ethan really could find him. Louis’ life in Ireland, while dull and repetitive, even tedious at times, was reliable in a way nothing in his life had ever been.

“Let me know of anything else unusual,” Liam said, gathering his files into his briefcase. “You have my personal number, right?”

Louis nodded, smiling appreciatively. He always appreciated Liam’s advertence to sanctimonious lecturing. He treated Louis like an equal, not a vulnerable victim and Louis could never express his appreciation for that.

 

*

 

The blustering wind carried the crunching, rust-coloured leaves across the path outside the café. The leaves caught in people’s sweeping strands of hair and swirled in mimicking patterns before drifting into shallow puddles near corners and indents in the road. Louis gazed outside, awaiting Mr Garrihy’s usual Monday demand for a third cup of tea and a request that Louis teach him how to send a text to his nephew. It was a surprisingly comforting habitual affair.

“James, my boy!” a gruff voice called. Louis heard the sound of a chair scraping the hardwood floor. “Bring me another cup of tea, would you? I need a hand with this blasted texting device and I won’t be able to concentrate without a fresh brew.”

The door was shoved open and the bell chimed just as Louis was carrying over Mr Garrihy’s tea and a fresh notebook – he often learned best when instructions were written for him to follow. Louis glanced up to find a reluctant Trinity Boy being hauled inside by a girl with auburn hair and a determined grimace. Louis ignored them both in favour of pulling out the chair beside Mr Garrihy and explaining how passwords worked.

Five minutes passed before Louis heard a rhythmic tapping. He glanced up to find the girl's long nails thrumming impatiently on the counter. She glancing around the café insouciantly. Louis turned his attention back to Mr Garrihy and scrawled out how to access his nephew’s contact number while Mr Garrihy breathed loudly and erratically in his ear.

A loud, almost indignant cough carried across the café. Louis lifted his gaze to find Harry muttering furiously at his female companion. She ignored him and looked pointedly at Louis. With a sigh, Louis apologised quietly to Mr Garrihy and, dusting off his apron, marched to stand behind the counter.

“What were you doing?” Harry blurted out.

Though determined that he wouldn’t indulge in Trinity Boy’s apparent inquisitive nature, Louis couldn’t help but notice a stain on Harry’s cheeks.

“I was showing him how to use his phone so that he can reply to his nephew.”

Trinity Boy wrinkled his nose. “Bit of a chore for you, though, isn’t it?”

Perhaps he had meant it in a sympathetic way, but Louis suddenly felt a flare of indignance. Did this posh boy not understand that he was intruding on Louis’ life in an entirely undignified and, more importantly, unappreciated way?

Louis pressed his lips into a firm line and rose higher onto his feet. “I like teaching him actually.”

Harry looked apologetic, pulling his lower lip into his mouth. “I didn’t mean… I was just going to suggest that there are classes for that that he could take.”

The auburn-haired girl, who had been watching their exchange with pursed lips, looked expectantly at Louis. She brushed Louis the wrong way.

“Well, I offered and he doesn’t want to have to have his dignity knocked attending classes especially designed for elderly people,” Louis snapped. “He’s already put in enough positions in his life where he’s made to feel like a useless basket case so he comes here for company. And if I can help him personally, then I will.”

Louis had no idea where his outburst originated from but as soon as the words left his mouth he felt a dreadful wave of shame crash against his chest.

Harry looked deeply apologetic and opened his mouth to speak before the auburn-haired girl placed a hand across his chest.

“We won’t waste your time, then,” she clipped. With that, she flounced out of the café, leaving Louis to gape at her retreating figure.

Louis sunk his fingertips into his thighs as his own voice, high and indignant, rung inside his head. He hadn’t mean to be rude; he felt responsible for defending his choices. Spending time every day with lonely elderly people left him with a lingering sense of respect and sympathy for them.

Trinity Boy opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to say something before thinking the better of it. His lips twisted into a tight, but not ingenuine smile.

“She dragged me here,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want… sorry for – er – intruding like this. I’ll let you get back teaching…”

“Mr Garrihy,” Louis supplied quietly.

“Mr Garrihy,” Harry repeated. He quite abruptly turned on his heel and raised his voice, calling “Good to see you, Mr Garrihy! Enjoy the rest of your day!"

“And you, son!” Mr Garrihy called, apparently delighted.

Louis watched the way his entire face lit up, his eyes shining and hand – the one that was recently healed from varicose vein surgery – waving high in the air. A small, terrific jolt of curiosity shot through Louis’ body, leaving him with a strange, although not unpleasant feeling.

He took his seat beside Mr Garrihy and proceeded to launch into his familiar explanation about how to access the different features on his phone. His thoughts, however, seemed to wander towards an unchartered area that Louis’ had denied himself access to since for four months. An area filled with something akin to pleasant surprise and fleeting kisses and Ethan’s quiet, soothing reassurances. A place Louis had repudiated since the night that a man was killed before Louis’ own eyes and the wall that Ethan had promised between his personal and professional life revealed its thinness.

 


	3. Be Still And He Will Leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The SIS building is another name for the MI6 building.

_Dreaming that life is a dream which is real,_

_The river a reflection of itself in its own waters_

\- Paul Durcan, 'Windfall', 8 Parnell Hill, Cork

 

“They’re on the move.”

Louis glanced up from where his head had been hanging over a steaming pot of tomato sauce. “What?”

Liam turned in his seat, apparently shieling himself from Louis’ inevitable outburst with a stack of files. “Foster… he’s on the move. He travelled from Poland to just outside of Berlin this morning.”

Louis recognised the slightly sheepish hint to Liam’s tone and tried to focus on the bubbling pot, stirring it occasionally as he processed this information. Ethan Foster wasn’t supposed to leave Poland for another week. Typical, Louis thought bitterly. Ethan had never been one to tie himself to one spot for too long. The normalcy and routine of Louis’ life in Ireland had felt unbearably strange for the first few months, especially after spending so long with Ethan.

“Do you think he knows where I am?” Louis asked suddenly.

Liam gave a remorseful sigh. “We can’t be sure. But we don’t want to risk moving you because that would draw suspicion. He’s already been changing his guards frequently and two of our men with him have been rotated already. He’s either very paranoid, or he knows that we’re close.”

Louis felt his pulse quicken and he hastily drew the kitchen curtains. He hated the prickling sensation that he was being watched.

Liam ambled into the kitchen unit and plucked out Louis’ battered cutlery and two plates from the press. It often struck Louis how comfortable they were together, how trusting Liam was and how much he had confided in Louis about the case. During the first few weeks after he turned himself into the police, it had felt like the odds were positioned against him. It felt like nobody trusted him, and many others didn’t deign him worthy to be treated with any kind of respect. Even when his evidence had proven to be correct, and a huge drugs seizure succeeded thanks to his tip-off about the location, he was still treated as the boy who made all the wrong choices by everyone except Liam.

Being one of the youngest assistant agents in MI6, Liam was probably too trusting to a fault, but he had extraordinary intuition and often provided a kind of perspective on his cases that other agents lacked. When Louis’ case had been transferred from the English police force to the secret service, Liam had been one of the first people to pay Louis a second glance.

“I think I’ll make a some pasta tonight,” Louis said absently, searching through the cupboard for the bow-tie pasta he knew was Liam’s preferred type.

He heard Liam make a non-committal noise.

“My boss wants you to come in tomorrow.”

Louis dropped the packet of pasta and it spilled across the kitchen counter, tumbling onto the ground. He felt his chest tighten, sensing the familiar constrain that often accompanied memories at the SIS building. Even the thought of Vauxhill Cross – the blaring car horns and blinding lights and the inescapable sense of panic – made an impending sense of danger course through him, as though injected with something immobilising that left him drowning in memories.

“What for?” Louis asked. His voice came out horribly strained and raspy. He could already feel his throat tighten.

Liam caught his eye and Louis noticed something close to remorse glittering there, as though Liam personally felt responsible. “I wasn’t told everything,” he began cautiously. “He said that they’re getting worried about Foster and they want to ‘keep an eye on things’.”

Louis turned down the heat of the pot of pasta sauce as it bubbled near the brim. He refused to meet Liam’s eye. “Which means that they think Foster has found me.”

Liam sighed and, out of the corner of his eye, Louis watched him shake his head exasperatedly. “Of course not. If they thought that… well, let’s just say we wouldn’t be here having tomato pasta.” His eyes roamed the spilled pasta and its near-empty packet. “Well, maybe just tomato sauce.”

Louis cracked a grin and lifted his gaze.

“It might just be a routine check. Or he might want to get your input on something, considering you know how Foster likes to keep on the move.”

Louis knew that it pained Liam to keep mentioning his past with Ethan, that Liam knew just how much horrific pain it elicited in him, but he couldn’t help the words that slipped from his mouth. “I’m not some fucking expert on Ethan Foster’s fucked up, twisted mind, Liam!” he shouted, felling his hands wrench from the pan to clench at his sides. “You can’t just call me in on command, like I fucking work for your boss! I’m trying to move on from this shit and you keep dragging me back into it.”

Louis heard his breaths become shallow and weaker but he ignored the way his eyes prickled. His heart was pounding in his chest still, but he instantly regretted taking his frustration out on Liam. He was the messenger in much bigger, more complicated game. Liam had once compared Foster’s case to a game of chess. There were predictable, practiced moves, but sometimes your opponent liked to bend the rules. They tested the boundaries, skirting along the edges before darting in the opposite direction. Before Louis, shaking, with his chest splattered with blood, had dragged his feet to the tiny Wood Street police station and admitted everything, Ethan had been winning. Since then, they had reached an irresolvable stalemate, each waiting for one to make the next move. Ethan had sacrificed Louis – his most trusted piece that he never used to play in his games, preferring to keep him hidden and inaccessible – to checkmate his opposition, and now he wanted Louis back.

“I’m sorry,” Louis sighed. He ambled over to the opposite side of the kitchen to begin sweeping the pasta pieces. Before he could begin, however, he felt the sweeping brush be gently pried from his hands.

“I’ll do it,” Liam said quietly. “Sit down, mate.”

Louis sat down primly on the hardest kitchen chair, watching as Liam expertly made his way around the kitchen. Within fifteen minutes and a lull in their conversation, filled only by the groaning of the washing machine and the distant _ping_ of the elevator doors across the hall, Liam had whipped up a respectable dinner for them both.

“James,” he said nervously, as though anticipating Louis to snap again, “just say that my boss recommended that you leave Ireland permanently. Not saying it will happen, just… humour me.”

“Yes?” Louis said warily.

“Well… what would it mean to leave here?”

Louis clutched his empty mug of tea to his chest and felt the warmth seep into the cotton of his jumper and his skin, still tender with faded bruises even months later. “What do you mean, exactly?”

Liam sighed. “What would it mean to leave Ireland? Apart from the customers at the café, do you think that your notice might be considered suspicious in any way? Will anyone try to keep contact with you, do you think?”

Louis smiled wryly, not finding the strength the feel sorry for himself. “No. There’s no issue with logistics if I have to move,” he said. “You don’t have to invent a whole backstory about me joining a cult in Tanzania, or anything.”

Liam looked conflicted between relief and sympathy. He settled on patting Louis lightly on the shoulder, which Louis took as a comforting gesture, before crossing something off his long list of tasks to complete. Louis had quickly learned that Liam enjoyed lists and order but, strangely, he didn’t seek the power that so many other young men in his position might. It was something refreshing about him that helped Louis trust him implicitly, especially during the first few weeks when he had felt irresolvably alone.  

“How long will we be gone?” Louis asked. “Should I pack all of my stuff now?”

He despised how his voice had cracked at the end, as though staying in Ireland had meant something to him. He had convinced both himself and Liam that it had until now, and now wasn’t the time to begin forming attachments, only to have the tethers binding him to Ireland cut with a signature form Liam’s boss, a moving van and a folder revealing a new identity.

Liam looked like he was floundering between encasing Louis in a suffocating hug and leaving him in the dark about the entire operation. Deciding that the former simply would not to anything to keep his tears safely at bay, Louis pointed to his stack of files.

“What else about Ethan’s case do we know? Do you have any leads on where his flight is going?”

It was a frivolous question that Louis already knew the answer to.

As anticipated, Liam shook his head. “We already know that Foster insists on making his own travel plans because he’s too paranoid that the information will leak,” he said. The ‘you told us so three months ago, when you were under interrogation’ went unsaid between them.

Louis decided to nod anyway, as though this was entirely new information. He glanced up, smiling tightly. “When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. Seven o’clock flight,” he said.

Louis’ lips quirked into an ironic smile. “I assume you have James Alexander Floyd’s passport.”

 

*

 

London’s transport system, it seemed, was as unpredictable as Dublin’s weather. Louis would trade the simultaneously dreary skies and humid wind for the fifty minute delay predicated for their flight in a heartbeat. Liam’s downward (and very audible) spiral of panic, the screaming of a young child three rows behind him and the swelteringly hot, sweaty air of the plane was enough to drive Louis up the walls.

“Liam, shut up for a minute,” he snapped.

Liam promptly paused in his detailed description of the many ways his boss would relish firing him for being late. And Louis thought that _he_ was melodramatic.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking,” a slightly frazzled voice called over the loud speaker. The chattering dulled to a low hum, but this only seemed to isolate the relentless screaming of the young child. “We’ve just received word that the drone in London Heathrow has been identified and that flight operations are back in order. We are expected to arrive at half past nine, with a possible minor further delay finding a departing terminal. We apologise again for these delays and politely ask that you do not take any complaints up with our air hostesses, but with customer service at Heathrow instead.”

Louis sighed and rested his head against the window and watching the light raindrops cling to the pane of glass and trickle down. Liam wordlessly passed him a lollipop – vanilla flavour – and Louis smiled despite himself. Despite how distracted Liam seemed, preoccupied as he was with creating the logistics of criminal pursuits and tracking undercover operations, he always remembered small details about Louis, like how his ears became blocked when he flew and, as a result, became highly irritable, unless he had a lollipop.

It was a little under two hours before they arrived at the Heathrow gate. They raced through the thick throngs of people at the arrivals gate, catching glimpses of the ‘Welcome Home’ signs decorated with an excess of glitter, and the couples embracing their loved ones. Louis felt something uncomfortable twist in his chest and persisted, trying to make Liam out through the crowds. He could spot his athletic form jogging ahead and waving down a taxi. Naturally, Liam had full access to a fleet of MI6 vehicles, but he abided by the rules surrounding transport of criminal witnesses and alibis with stubborn vehemence. He often called it ‘existing in plain sight’, even though the thought of just how exposed he was sometimes unnerved Louis.

They slid side-by-side into the taxi and Liam called an urgent “Phoenix House, please. As quickly as you can.”

The taxi driver, a corpulent man with bushy eyebrows, eyed him warily. “I go as fast as the traffic lets me, lad.”

Liam pressed a fifty pound note onto the dashboard of the taxi as the driver swerved around an oncoming truck. The taxi driver eyed the note with distinct unease before snatching it from the dashboard and stuffing it into his pocket.

“I can get you there via a back route, but if my insurance goes up for breaking a red light then you’re paying for it.”

Liam nodded primly and clutched the sides of his seat as the car sped up. Louis’ heart thudded in his chest as their driver, suddenly reckless and impulsive, broke consecutive lights and navigated the bustling London streets with ease. It was twenty minutes and a minor stomach ache later that the car screeched to a halt outside Phoenix House. Louis scrambled out of the car, catching sight of Liam pressing another note into the driver’s outstretched palm before he swerved off the footpath and raced down the street.

Shooting Louis a wary look, Liam tugged him lightly by the arm, adjusting his briefcase and satchel mid-run as they headed down the street towards the Thames. Phoenix House was locate fifteen minutes walking distance (or seven, if you were Liam) from the MI6 building. Louis had to hand it to Liam for thinking of that in advance – he abided religiously by the rules of anonymity, making sure that even someone as innocuous as a taxi driver, who probably had no pertinence to MI6, had no reason to link Louis to anything suspicious.

They arrived at the SIS building, a rather intimidating structure that was impressively pristine and seemed to judge Louis for his choice of shirt. He followed Liam inside, covered in a light sheen of sweat and clutching his side. Liam trotted ahead of him and towards a concealed side entrance that he ushered Louis through.

“We’re not as late as I thought we were going to be but prepare for a berating anyway. Stevens is not the kind of person who takes tardiness lightly,” Liam warned.

They took an elevator up to the seventh floor – the top one, as far as Louis could tell – that was almost completely full. Louis desperately hoped that it wouldn’t break down from the strain of their collective weight. He didn’t think he could stand another hour of Liam’s innate rambling. When Louis looked a little closer, however, he saw that many of the people in the elevator were young, most around his age. From what Liam had always told him, he was under the impression that MI6 was full of middle-aged men who read James Bond as children and soon realised that the fantasy never quite transpired into the actuality.

“What’s with all the people our age? I thought you said you’re entire floor was full of men going through their mid-life crises,” he muttered.

Liam’s eyes narrowed for a moment before the crease smoothed with realisation. “Recruitment,” he explained, his ‘whispering’ voice carrying through the confines of the elevator. Louis realised quite quickly why Liam was never given field duty. “They bring prospective employees in from the top universities in Britain and Ireland. Bit of an induction day for them to see if they’d be interested in joining. Acceptance is very low, though.”

Louis nodded, feeling a strange prickling feeling along his neck.

Finally, the elevator reached the seventh floor and they rushed out and along along a deserted corridor, windowless and covered in black marble.

“This way!” Liam called.

They came to a sudden halt at a white door, beside which a secretary with four laptops and an enormous headset sat, typing rapidly. She spared Liam a mere glance before nodding once and handing him a tiny, black remote-like device.

“The code will activate once the sensors outside his office recognise you,” she said brightly. She glanced at her watch, before counting a short “Three… two… one.” Smiling consolingly at Liam she advised a quiet “I must warn you, he’s in a bit of a strop today. I hope it’s good news you’re delivering or he might very well fire a poor, unsuspecting intern by lunchtime.”

Liam grimaced. “As long as it’s not one of us, Sandy.”

A small chuckle escaped her lips and they exchanged a look that told Louis of late-nights, shared takeaways and dealing with the tribulations of having an awfully demanding boss.

The door clicked, loud and ominous.

“Come on, James.”


	4. Dark And Divine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry that this is such a short chapter but the next one will be full of trouble ;) I'm really excited to share it. Next one coming very soon - I promise this time!

_But our love it was stronger by far than the love_

_Of those who were older than we—_

_Of many far wiser than we—_

\- Edgar Allan Poe, Annabel Lee

 

The décor of the office was exquisite; white marble floors, elaborate pieces of art dotted in each corner, and a thick-pane of glass (bulletproof, surely) covering an entire wall. The city below them, bustling with people arguing and driving and entertaining frivolous worries seemed so insignificant from this height.

“Payne!” a voice barked from the corner of the room. Louis twisted around to see a man with piercing eyes and an unimpressed scowl. His tone was horribly domineering and Louis was instantly reminded of the stories of Liam’s boss’s self-righteous behaviour; how he considered everyone beneath him and treated them with distain until, in his eyes, they earned his respect. From what Louis had been told, Liam had never quite overcome that obstacle.

“Yes, sir?” Liam said.

Stevens walked with languid, purposeful steps, apparently relishing the effect he had on Liam, until he came to a stop directly before him. Liam was at least two inches taller, but this apparently had very little effect on their dynamic.

“I will thank you not to bring our most important witness protection alibi for this case late again under my watch,” he said through gritted teeth. Stevens sighed heavily and, for a moment, Louis could see just how exhausted the man looked behind his pristine suit and the waft of expensive cologne emanating around the room. “This situation is precarious enough as it is without having to wait unnecessarily. If it happens again, I’ll happily hand this case over to someone else. Someone more competent.”

Liam apparently took offence at this but his voice remained unflinching when he protested. “Sir,” he insisted, “our flight was delayed and there was no possible way we could–”

“No excuses.” Stevens dragged a hand down his face and heaved another sigh. Turning on his heel, he only then took notice of Louis. He held out a hand and Louis tried not to wince as he took it, shaking it once. “Would you prefer to be referred to by your given identity or your real one?”

Louis was struck by the tone of his voice; it was almost sincere, as though it mattered which name Louis chose. “James is fine,” he said with a shrug. “I’m used to it by now, at least.”

Stevens nodded firmly and gestured to the twin chairs opposite his desk. Taking a tentative seat beside Liam, Louis watched as Stevens rifled through one of the drawers in his desk and pulled out a slim folder. From what Louis could see, it was dated from earlier that morning. Even the ink looked fresh.

“New intel tells us that Foster is staying in Germany for the next three days. He then plans to disappear for an unknown length of time to complete a task.” Stevens allowed his gaze to wander to Louis and he felt uncomfortably scrutinised, clasping his hands together beneath his thighs. He realised that this probably looked very immature and would do very little to help his image as the boy who got himself caught up in a whirlwind of drugs and violence by falling in love with a gangland crime leader. How terribly cliché it was. Louis pressed his lips into a firm line and placed his hands on his knees instead, drawing himself higher on his chair.

“As you’ve probably gauged by now, James, it’s widely believed that this task involves you.”

Louis nodded tightly. Being reminded that his psychopathic ex-boyfriend wanted to kill him, surprisingly, became quite a dull process after a while.

“From our agents on the ground, it seems that he’s definitely searching for you, but we have no indication that he has found you as of yet. Considering that he plans to leave in a couple of days – earlier than anticipated – we’re erring on the side of caution in assuming that he’s close.”

“So, are you going to transfer me? Liam said that would draw too much suspicion. He said Ethan will have people tracking flights.”

Stevens glanced at Liam and gave him an approving nod. “That’s correct. We’re not going to transfer you, but we’re also not sending you back to Ireland. We’ve decided to keep you in London in order to keep a close eye on things. Evidence-collecting is coming, but it’s not fast enough to let us arrest Foster yet without having any conviction we bring forward quashed by the judge. We need more time; time to build a case against him while keeping you out of reach.”

 

*

 

“How’s your tea?”

Louis glanced up from where he was munching on a – frankly delicious – almond croissant. “My what?”

“Your tea,” Liam repeated, pointing to his steaming mug.

Plucking it up and pressing the rim against his mouth, Louis shut his eyes. “Heavenly.”

Liam snorted.

“Hey!” Louis protested, flicking his shoulder. “I haven’t been able to drink Yorkshire tea for months. They don’t sell it in Dublin and I couldn’t get it delivered because Ethan knows how much I like it. The bastard’s probably tracking Yorkshire tea shipments around the world as we speak.”

Liam watched him warily. Though Louis had been unbearably reserved when he arrived at MI6, refusing to answer any questions pertaining to his romantic relationship with Ethan, he had learned to build up a coping mechanism of employing dark humour whenever his past was mentioned. Louis knew that Liam didn’t buy it; he probably thought that Louis was deflecting his pain. He probably was.

“Do you come here often?” Louis asked, snatching the crust of Liam’s apple pie from his plate. He gestured around them at the small café inside the SIS building.

Liam nodded. “Mostly I have my lunch here. I never like to stray far from the office unless Stevens needs me. I don’t have it the worst, though; Sandy usually eats her lunch at her desk.” He frowned, glancing around them. “It’s never this busy, though. Must be all the new recruits.”

Louis hummed non-committedly. “What degrees do most of the recruits have? You said that they come straight out of university, right? There’s hardly a degree in spying or something.”

Liam slathered butter on his apple pie and Louis winced. “It’s good, I promise,” Liam insisted. “But, to answer your question, they don’t really chose people based on their degree. I mean, some of these people could have studied business or law, and others might have done photography and film studies. They look for certain types of people; aptitudes, abilities, a penchant for crime and mystery, sometimes. They want the whole process to seem unpredictable.”

“Alright, then, what about her?” Louis asked. He grinned at Liam and watched a shadow of wistful affection cross his face. They had played this game – deciding a life-story for unassuming passers-by – many times before. Four months ago, in a dingy police station, three and a half months ago, just outside Prague, when Louis was waiting to be interrogated by a foreign branch of MI6, and the previous month, after Foster had been sighted for the first time in weeks, in Cuba, after Louis had needed to describe a the shooting that had happened the previous year from his perspective.

Liam nodded and glanced at the girl at the front of the queue. “Yellow jumper and heavy make-up, so she’s not particularly keen to go unnoticed by anyone. I’d wager a guess that she thrives under attention. She’s compulsively checking her phone and keeps glancing around her, so I’m guessing that she’s waiting for someone and doesn’t like solitude; she likes to feel surrounded and popular. She also ordered very quickly, which leads me to believe that she’s either very decisive or very predictable. Probably the latter, if her other traits are anything to go by.”

“I love it when you go into spy-mode,” Louis sighed. His grabbed the last piece of Liam’s pie. His theory was proved decidedly wrong; butter on apple pie was delicious. Pointing towards a group of people about his age, Louis said, “What about them?”

There was one girl at the front of the group that caught his eye. She had distinctive auburn hair and a determined grimace. Louis’ stomach made an uncomfortable lurching motion as he tried to piece together his memory of her. He recognised her. From where, though, he didn’t know.

A cackle of laughter and one of the boys in the group was calling loudly out the door, his voice ringing through the café. “Harry, you tosser! Where’ve you been?”

A fleeting image tore through Louis’ mind. The girl with the auburn hair was Trinity Boy’s friend, the one who had dragged him into the café even after Louis had blatantly rejected his advances.

“…and seems a little precocious, too. Although, her friend doesn’t seem to mind that– _James_? What’s wrong?”

Liam’s urgent voice registered in Louis’ mind but he couldn’t move. He could clearly see Harry – the boy who had taken an annoyingly keen fancy to Louis – on the other side of the café. His hair was styled similarly to when Louis had first met him, but he was wearing a maroon suit and silk shirt with embroidered roses, at least four top buttons unclasped to reveal a smooth chest. Louis had to agree with Trinity Boy’s friend; he looked like a complete tosser.

“Liam,” Louis said through gritted teeth. He slowly inclined his head towards that group. “You see that prat with the flowery shirt and the ginger girl?”

Liam nodded reluctantly.

“They’ve seen me before, in the café. They know I work there.”

Liam’s eyes widened for a moment before his brow creased. “Okay, that’s… that’s okay. If they see you, then you can just say that you’re part of the new recruitment scheme.”

Nodding carefully, Louis sighed, “Okay, yeah. That… that makes sense. Nothing suspicious at all.”

Liam grinned and slurped loudly on his coffee. He glanced at his watch. “Come on, we’d better head back to Stevens’s office. He said that there’s going to be meeting about how you’ll be kept safe here in London at two.”

Louis nodded and snuck a glance to the other side of the café. Green eyes caught his own and Trinity Boy looked utterly baffled for a second before sending him an absent half-wave. “Bollocks,” Louis sighed.


	5. Sweet Divine, A Heavy Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the wait for this chapter. I promise that I'm fully committed to this fic right now—it's my first priority. This is mainly a filler chapter just to re-establish where the story left off. The next chapter will be far more eventful—promise.

_We who are young, and have caught the splendour of_

_life,_

_Hunting it down the forested ways of the world_

\- Geoffrey Bache Smith, The Last Meeting

 

“What kind of witness protection?” Louis asked, folding his hands together and attempting to appear attentive. They were in the intel sector of the SIS building, known colloquially as ‘The Layer’, and Louis was quickly growing restless.

“A significantly higher level than you were afforded before this,” Zayn, the intel operator, said. He leafed through folders of particular plans and profiles, each stamped with ‘Strictly Confidential and Private’. “We’ve had to work solely with manual copies for the Foster case. He’s managed to hack our intel in the past—”

“Before Zayn started working here,” Liam added earnestly.

Zayn glanced behind him and nodded once. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have people assigned specifically to target our systems as we speak,” he said. “We couldn’t risk dealing exclusively with technology.” He gestured listlessly at the piles of paperwork.

“So will I be locked away in the highest room of the tallest tower for the next year then?” Louis asked, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt. The MI6 building was stiflingly hot, and he had never felt comfortable in formal attire.

Zayn cracked a grin. “Not exactly. Stevens directed me to keep you in London so that we’ll be able to physically intercept anything happening. Our main priority here is protecting you, rather than catching Foster necessarily. Theoretically we could do that right now—MI6 have people in some of his most trusted inner circles—but we just haven’t gathered enough evidence to arrest him yet.”

“So you’re stalling him but keeping me at arm’s length?”

Rounding the sofa in their secluded corner of The Layer, Liam leaned forward in a way that indicated unfavourable news. “Stevens wants to speak with you about that, actually,” he said, his tone balancing between sheepish and anxious on Louis’ behalf.

“Right,” Louis said, heaving himself up from his sitting position. “What specifically?”

Liam exchanged a wary glance with Zayn. He cleared his throat pointedly. “Stevens hasn’t disclosed… everything to me yet. What I can gather so far is that he wants to keep you at arm’s length, like you said, but not necessarily… out of Foster’s reach.”

Louis felt his throat tighten horribly, constricting his breathing and leaving him light-headed. The blood drained from his face. Reaching out frantically for something to cling to, he felt his vision blur and a body grasp him beneath the arms. A soft surface beneath him and murmured words in his ear; someone was shouting, the demanding voice rang in Louis’ head but he couldn’t find the energy to ask that it stop.

“Deep breaths now, James—in through your nose and out through your mouth,” a voice—Liam’s—instructed gently. His tone was concerned, and Louis instantly felt himself relax, safe in the knowledge that Liam was with him. Focusing on his heartbeat—rapid and erratic—he tried to tap his finger to his thigh in a steady, soothing rhythm, focusing on the aspects of his situation that he was conscious of. That was one of the few things that Ethan had taught Louis which he had retained—if he ever found himself in a vulnerable position, to make himself aware of his surrounding before ever revealing that he was fully alert.

“Up you get, James.”

A gentle hand held his upper back and guided him slowly into a seated position. Blinking blearily, Louis opened his eyes before squinting as the horribly intrusive lights in the Layer obscured his vision. Three faces were staring at him: Liam, Zayn and a woman with a first aid kit clutched to her chest.

“I’m fine,” he said instantly. His defensiveness had become reflexive, and he knew that Liam could appreciate that fact, even when he deigned it unnecessary to comment as such.

“You don’t seem fine, James,” Zayn said kindly.

Louis shook his head vehemently. “No, really—just a moment of dizziness was all. I might have stood up too quickly or something.”

Zayn didn’t look convinced. Louis often forgot how futile it was to lie to fully-trained spies; their jobs _revolved_ around lying.

“If you’re sure,” the woman said, worrying her lip. “Liam, press the bell if he needs anything, won’t you?”

“Of course, Aizzah, thank you,” Liam said genially. He turned to face Louis, looking highly apprehensive. “Stevens can wait until tomorrow if you’re not up for it, James. He will absolutely understand. Or, at least, I’ll explain the situation. He can hardly force—”

“Liam,” he sighed, taking in the glint of distress in Liam’s eye. “It’s not a problem. Just—tell me what you were going to say before.”

Though visibly opposed, Liam resigned to sitting back down, beside Louis this time. “Stevens seems to have suggested that, although keeping you safe is the most important thing right now, we don’t want Foster to consider you… unattainable. In order to keep him in a position where we have access to him to collect evidence and build a case, we need time.”

Louis swallowed thickly, and tied his hands in a knot to prevent them trembling. “So Stevens plans on luring him in, using me as the bait.”

Liam’s expression fell and he sighed dejectedly. “That’s what I’ve gathered from things he’s let slip so far,” he said quietly. “I just thought… it might be easier for me to break it to you, rather than Stevens. But, James, I promise to do everything in my power not to let—”

“Don’t,” he said. “This isn’t you fault, Liam. You don’t have to justify anything.”

Liam fell silent.

Louis breathed sharply through his nose, allowing his eyes to follow the wild gesticulation of another intel operator on the opposite side of The Layer. He nodded once, primly, and pulled himself to his feet once again. Gritting his teeth as a wave of nausea threatened to overcome him, Louis forced himself to maintain the pretence, at least until he had finished hearing Stevens’s proposition. He wasn’t prepared to break down in front of another MI6 official.

 

*

 

“I’ll be frank with you, James,” Stevens said, leaning against his desk and bowing his head over the paperwork piled in pristine stacks. “We’re not in control in this little cat-and-mouse game with Foster. We may have people on the inside, but you know as well as I do that he’s always three paces ahead. One wrong turn on our behalves and he could go underground for any discernible length of time.”

Louis watched as Stevens dragged his hand down his face, pressing the pads of his thumbs against his eyes. From Louis’ stance, it looked rather painful.  

“The only plausible way we can get the upper hand and ensure that he’s still within our reach in the few months it will take to get enough evidence to put him behind bars, is to use you,” Stevens said. He winced at the choice of words. “Not _use_ , necessarily, just—”

“Use me to manipulate Foster to your advantage?” Louis said, affecting nonchalance. He caught Stevens’s eye and absorbed his expression, searching for any variance in his gaze, any hint of remorse at what he was proposing. Louis could detect neither. “Choice of words doesn’t conceal meaning, Mr Stevens. And I’m used to empty words, believe me.”

Shifting beneath Louis’ scrutiny, Stevens sat back in his rigid chair and placed his hands on the desk. Louis noticed that he wore a thick wedding band.

“Look, I know this isn’t ideal for you but I doubt you’ll even have to have contact with Foster. From what you’ve told us and we’ve gathered from surveillance and other intel, he knows that you’re with us.”

“That doesn’t mean he won’t risk finding me himself,” Louis said, forcing himself not to dwell on the surge of memories that flooded his thoughts with striking rawness. “He likes working alone, in case you don’t remember.”

Stevens seemed to take offence at the insinuated slight. “I remember perfectly well,” he said shortly. “But Foster is anything if not cautious. Once he knows of your location, he’s not going to rush over on the first flight to London Heathrow and risk placing the entirety of his wider operation in jeopardy.”

“So you’re not going to spoon-feed him my location?”

“No,” Stevens said. The sunlight beaming through the thick pane of glass covering the opposite wall spilled into the room and gleamed on the surfaces of his office. “This is going to be a precise operation—we’re going to make it appear like a reckless mistake on our behalf, which will garner Foster’s interest.”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “Wherever Ethan’s interest lies, there’s also suspicion.”

“I’m fully aware of the nature of this man,” Stevens said.

Anger, white-hot and livid, coursed through Louis. Who did this MI6 bureaucratic bastard think he was? He knew the Foster that oversaw brutal drug and trafficking operations; he knew the Foster that spilled needless blood to protect himself; he knew of the ruthlessness and indiscriminate nature of the killings. What he didn’t know was the extraordinary allure of the man that had initially attracted Louis to him, all of which concealed the crimes he committed. He didn’t know the intelligence and the power and the love with which he had regarded Louis; passionate, fierce, amorous love that left Louis longing for more and aching when it went away.

Louis pressed his lips into a thin, resigned line. “What do you propose?”


	6. Angels and Agendas

_Tell the truth, but tell it slant_

\- Emily Dickinson

 

“It’s a very simple premise, overall,” Liam said through a hearty mouthful of the cottage pie Louis had cooked earlier that evening. He dragged his finger down the document, scrutinising it with narrowed eyes. “It’s generally considered bad luck to say this in field operations, but I think this is going to work.”

Louis raised an eyebrow, cracking an indulgent grin. “Congratulations Liam, you’ve just doomed our entire operation.”

Shoving him lightly on the shoulder, Liam chuckled to himself. “I just mean that, compared to other missions I’ve had to oversee, this is quite straightforward.”

Louis hummed non-committedly, lifting his socked feet to perch on the chipped table where the rest of the manual copies were stacked.

Despite having lived there for almost eight months, Liam’s apartment was still disconcertingly bare. The walls were devoid of personal touches—no paint samples in obscure places with labels like ‘Eggshell Delight’ and ‘Distant Windchime Blue’ scrawled above them, nor any photographs of his family or close mates—and his possessions composed of the barest of essentials. Liam always insisted that agents needed to minimise their belongings to make them less susceptible to robbery and so that they were prepared to leave on short notice, but Louis had to admit that the state of Liam’s apartment was excessive. It just made his apartment seem lonely and unloved.  

“I’ve a spare bedroom in the back, don’t worry,” Liam insisted when he noticed Louis observing the sitting room forlornly. “And besides, it’s only for one night. You’ll be with the rest of the prospective recruits starting from tomorrow morning.”

Louis sighed. The plan proposed by Stevens was, as Liam had deigned it, a straightforward one: Louis would remain in plain sight, assuming the identity of one of the prospective MI6 recruits. It was, upon reflection, an excellent cover; Louis already knew a huge amount about fieldwork and agent activities so he would adapt well to the hand-selected group of other recruits, and he would be located in the SIS building, surrounded by elite security guards. Privately, Louis also knew that Ethan would find the notion that Louis was training to become an agent intriguing, something that would further his desire to locate Louis and, hopefully, lead him straight into the hands of MI6.

Three enormous folders providing the specifics of the MI6 recruiting programme had been thrust into Louis’ arms on his way out of the SIS building with Liam, and he had been instructed to learn absolutely everything detailed therein. Stevens had told him that he would not be given preferential treatment in the programme; even the instructors leading and organising it wouldn’t be made aware of his predicament. He needed to be utterly beyond reproach, and that meant meeting the extraordinary high standards of the other recruits, while somehow managing to fade into the background.

There would be twelve recruits including Louis, each endowed with different skills and abilities, but each sharing intellect, intuition and ambition. The prospect of meeting them, let alone enduring the programme itself, was daunting to say the least.

Liam, apparently, had picked up on Louis’ reverie. “It’s going to be alright, mate,” he said, patting his shoulder in a surprisingly soothing manner. “I’ve looked into the candidate you recognised from the café in Dublin.” He tilted his head against the arm of the sofa, squinting into the dim light from as he listed off the facts he could recall. “Harry Styles, twenty-one, born and raised in Cheshire, Manchester. From what he’s shown in the programme so far he’s extremely good at reading people, has a natural charm and a very impressive ability to coax information out of people who don’t talk. He’ll be graduating with a highly probable first class honours in English Literature from Trinity College in two months’ time and, if he passes the recruitment programme, will begin working straight away.”

Louis nodded. “You forgot to mention that fact that he’s also a complete prat.”

Liam tittered. “If I’m being perfectly honest, MI6 is not the kind of place that attracts the most sincere people. There are far more instances of ego-clashing than of charitable deeds.”

“Charitable deeds,” Louis muttered under his breath, grinning at Liam’s choice of words.

“But you’d be surprised,” Liam insisted. “Despite a couple of pricks assigned to field work with James Bond-esque romanticised opinions of themselves, everyone working there has the greater good at heart. And there are some really great people there too.”

Louis yawned loudly and shot Liam a mischievous smirk. “Like Zayn?”

Liam spluttered for a moment before sighing and dropping his forehead into his hands. “Was I really that obvious?”

“Nah mate,” Louis dismissed. “With looks like that, I’m sure Zayn is immune to all the staring by this stage.”

“Right,” Liam said tightly, evidently unconvinced. “Well, Zayn won’t be working with you tomorrow—nobody who knows your true identity will be involved in the programme at all, actually—but he will be with me quite a bit so we could all grab a pint after work or something. I’m sure you need it after today.”

“I’m not intruding on your date, Liam,” Louis said. “Bringing along the ex-boyfriend of a murderous drug lord to your steamy, intimate pub date is hardly the correct way to woo a man. Honestly, Liam.”

“I don’t see you as that! Your much more than Foster’s ex-boyfriend,” Liam said, pulling his spindly legs beneath him on the sofa and pointedly making eye-contact with him. “And neither does Zayn. You’ve been invaluable to this operation, James.”

“ _And_ I’ve been feeding you delicious dinners for the past three months.”

Liam nodded ardently. “That too, you tosser,” he said, ruffling Louis’ hair. He sighed, bringing his hand up to flatten his hair. “In all seriousness, though, Zayn is the least judgemental person you’ll ever meet. Incredibly observant, but never seems to judge a book by its cover.”

Louis considered Liam’s words for a moment before nodding in acquiescence. “Alright. I’ll go to the pub with you and your boyfriend.” He swung his legs over the sofa and heaved himself to his feet, anticipating the cold, dingy room and matching mattress in Liam’s spare bedroom.

“Absolutely _not_ my boyfriend!” Liam shouted down the hall.

“Not yet, Liam. ‘The time of life is short; to spend that shortness basely were too long’, as Hotspur would say.” Louis twisted on his heel and glanced back at Liam, raising an eyebrow in faint satisfaction at his own memory of A-Level English. “These pretentious Oxbridge MI6 recruits are all riding Shakespeare, right?”

 

*

 

“Remind me again how Ethan will find out that I’m part of this recruitment programme again?”

“He won’t necessarily,” Liam said, slowing his stride to allow Louis to catch up. He stepped to the opposite side of the footpath to allow a young, frazzled mother pushing a pram to pass. “At least not straight away. Like you’ve always insisted, we can’t make your location obvious or Foster will suspect it’s a trap. We just need to peel back some of the layers of security regarding your identity.”

Louis nodded, fidgeting with his satchel until it hung more comfortably over his shoulder. He had been supplied with smart suit—a midnight blue sheen with gentle lines around his waist—and, though it fitted him far better than the threadbare shirt and apron he was used to wearing at the café, he felt distinctly uncomfortable.

“So, due to the variable that is Harry Styles, we’ve had to keep your assigned identity from Dublin—of James Alexander Floyd—the same,” Liam continued, checking him watch almost compulsively as they darted through the throngs of London businesspeople. “And you’re not to have any contact with Stevens if you can help it, otherwise people will ask questions about how you know one of the most important people in MI6.”

“What about you?”

Liam frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Won’t people be curious how I know you well enough that we’re arriving to headquarters together? And Trinity Boy saw us having lunch together yesterday.”

Liam shook his head. “People won’t be suspicious if you don’t give them a reason to be,” he said earnestly. “You knowing me is completely different to you knowing Stevens. We’re both the same age, and James Alexander Floyd went to Oxford, just like me. Mostly, people will assume we’re college mates and I managed to secure you a place on the recruitment programme.”

A horn blared and cars sped around the corner of Vauxhall Cross. Liam drummed his fingers impatiently against the traffic light, eyes trained ahead as if staring at the red light would force it to submit to green. Sighing, Louis unclasped the top button of his shirt.

“This is going to sound stupid, but you really have to try and fade into the background for the first few days,” Liam said, marching across the road. They trotted up the stairs and through the foyer, complete with impressive widows and sculptures that probably cost more than Louis earned at the café in a year. “You need to be inconspicuous to a certain degree. Not the worst in the group, but not remarkable by any great extent.”

“I know,” Louis said, trying to affect a nonchalant expression. “It’s not like I’m actually joining MI6, Liam.” He followed Liam through the foyer, avoiding the wandering eyes of one of the secretaries at the main reception desk. “Besides, I won’t be here long, if we’re being realistic about it. Ethan will find me sooner than you expect—he always does.”

Liam paused in his tracks and Louis caught his expression soften. “James, there’s the highest level of security to ensure that you’re kept out of harm’s way,” he said gently. He frowned, caught in thought. “I really wish it didn’t come to this.”

Despite the fact that everything from his stance to the clean cut of his suit spoke of masculinity and professionalism, Liam never hesitated to reveal his true, conscience-stricken opinion when it came to matters concerning Louis. Perhaps it was out of sympathy—he had witnessed Louis at his lowest point, his face and chest streaked with blood, his face horrifyingly distraught and petrified—or due to the copious amount of time they had spent together to the point where Louis could anticipate what Liam would say before he had opened his mouth. Either way, it was times like these that Louis appreciated Liam—reliable, diligent and sensitive to a fault sometimes—rather than a stone-cold MI6 agent with little interest in Louis beyond receiving a pay cheque.

Louis grinned at Liam’s contemplating frown. “Come on,” he said, tilting his head towards the recruitment centre, “I’ll be late otherwise.”

 

*

 

The other eleven recruits were, in Louis’ admittedly subjective opinion, pretentious, haughty prats. He made that assessment the second that he walked inside the recruitment centre and caught a glimpse of them all loitering around the induction room, mingling and laughing.

Louis teetered at the doorway for a moment, relieved that nobody had noticed his presence yet, and tried to breathe deeply and evenly, despite the erratic beat of his heart. He tried to survey the room—as he would be trained to do during the programme, surely. Seven boys and four girls, all in their early twenties and each boasting of entirely different appearances; there was a petite girl wearing a long frock and studded boots, a gangly boy with an upturned lip, and twins who wore matching sneers. Apart from Trinity Boy—who he noticed was speaking animatedly to the same auburn-haired girl—none of them seemed to come close to fitting the James Bond appeal that people assumed agents needed to possess.

“Ah, Mr Floyd, pleased you could join us,” a voice called, high and surprisingly pleasant in its Belfast brogue.

Louis turned on his heel and noticed a woman striding towards him with the air of someone far more domineering than she was. What she lacked in stature, however, she made up for in loudness. She held out her hand and Louis shook it firmly, noticing that, up close, her eyes were bright and clear. Around them, the rest of the recruits were watching the exchange keenly.

“Davina Adams, but everyone calls me ‘A’,” she said. “I’m in charge of recruitment around here, and will be monitoring you over the next few weeks.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Louis said, attempting to flash her a smile. He was quite sure it emerged as more of a grimace.

She tutted. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr Floyd,” she said emphatically. “Scholarship student? First class honours in English and History at Oxford? Combative training already? It’s not every day that you meet a student quite so diligent.”

Louis nodded, affecting modesty. The degree he had been assigned was not news to him; Liam had ensured that none of the other recruits had studied English and History at Corpus Christi campus in case any of them expected to recognise him. the combative training had been Steven’s suggestion, apparently. Ethan had taught Louis quite a great deal of useful self-defence manoeuvres in the months leading towards the inevitable night when Louis was dragged into his mess of violence—until that point, Ethan had managed to convince Louis that everything was theoretical, that he would never need to protect himself. That transpired to be false and, though it left Louis with an uncomfortably intimate knowledge about self-defence, it also left him with permanent scars.

“The combative training I have is still only at a basic level,” Louis admitted, remembering that Liam had advised him not to make himself out to be a serious competitor in the programme. He didn’t need to be perceived as a threat.

A waved her hand in dismissal. “Not an issue,” she said. “You have the foundation laid, and that’s the important thing.” She clapped her hands, the firm sound ringing in the sparse area of the recruitment centre. Raising her voice, she called “Alright everyone, we have a final potential recruit joining us: James Alexander Floyd. Keep in mind that he’s one week behind the rest of you, so cut him some slack.” She smiled genially. “Why don’t you join the rest of the group, James?”

“Thanks,” Louis mumbled, sidling in beside one of the sneering twins. Not unsurprisingly, she tipped him a long once-over before whispering something to her sister. Louis sighed, watching A walk to the front of the centre.

“I’ll be perfectly blunt,” she said, eyes roaming the twelve recruits with something colder than Louis had first encountered. “I dislike the way in which we scout for MI6 recruits. Hand-picking well-to-do students from top universities rarely results in the best agents. We’re looking for intelligence, yes, but a particular kind of intelligence. In my mind, the ideal recruit was the sort of person who has had to fight to get on in life, not the one born with a silver spoon in their mouth.”

Louis felt the girl beside him shift, and make a small, unamused noise.

“However, there’s no doubt that—on paper, at least—you all possess the right ingredients to become excellent agents,” A continued. The corners of her lips twisted into a peculiar smile; the kind of smile that spoke of promised danger. “Shall we begin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments so far!


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